


Control

by Nival_Vixen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Complete, Control Issues, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Incest, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Sibling Incest, Smut, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-05
Updated: 2014-01-05
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nival_Vixen/pseuds/Nival_Vixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their mother's murder, Sam and Dean Winchester are brought up investigating crimes, specifically those of serial killers. Now there's another serial killer out there, and it's one that Sam's a little too close to. AU. Wincest. Written for Dykeadellic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dykeadellic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeadellic/gifts).



Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.

 

...

 

They're called in to investigate a series of murders, as they always are when the local police (and sometimes federal ones) are unable to solve the crimes. The Winchester brothers are two of the best freelance consultants in America, having grown up with their father and both going into the family business of solving murders after his death. Their mother had been a victim to a serial murderer, driving their father to solve the crime and find the murderer. He had saved three girls' lives that day, possibly more with the amount of pictures the sick fuck had pasted on his walls. From there, John hadn't stopped. He'd been driven, passionate, and completely and utterly obsessed with stopping serial killers. Dean and Sam had been taken along with him, and were often at crime scenes more gristly than most people had nightmares about. It was the world they grew up in, and there was no chance that they weren't going to become the same as their father (there was a slight rebellion from Sam regarding college, but after his girlfriend is killed in the same manner as his mother, he joins Dean and doesn't look back).

 

Sam and Dean are only in the city for six hours when the next death occurs. It's all over the news that night: a gristly murder of a prominent businessman, and the shock and grief of his family (a young wife and even younger daughter, both holding each other and sobbing hysterically) can't be faked. Sam watches Dean closely, hoping that he's not right in this, wishing that for once he's wrong.

 

"He fits the profile," Sam murmurs, glancing up from his file on the murderer's M.O. "Family man, corrupt businessman, ties to the underworld; it's all there."

 

"So that's the sixth death tied to this bastard. Tell me you've finished with all of that by now, Sammy?" Dean asks, waving his hand towards the stack of files.

 

Dean always goes through the files first, then hands them over to Sam to look over. They check their theories against each other (sometimes they see things on completely opposite sides, but that's rare), and then go out to find the sicko that did the murders.

 

"Finished. The accountant?"

 

"The accountant," Dean agrees with a nod, grabbing his leather jacket as he heads out to his car.

 

Sam hurries to lock up the motel room behind him (they've lost more motel keys than he can remember, and this time they don't have the cash to pay for a new one), and slides into the passenger seat of the Impala mere seconds before Dean impatiently puts his foot on the accelerator and tears out of the motel parking lot.

 

The accountant starts crying when they interrogate him, confesses the entire thing between sobs (the whole conversation is relayed to the police by a strategically placed cellphone in Sam's jacket), and continues blubbering when he's being hauled out of his grandmother's basement in handcuffs by the police. Another crime solved, another notch on their belt, and Sam and Dean are thanked with a small wad of cash enveloped in a handshake behind closed doors. Sam's thankful for that - dinner was going to be hard to come by otherwise - but Dean just nods his head, gives a little smile, and leaves like the hounds of Baskerville are after him. Sam knows his reasons (he hates police stations, hates police officers, hates the way they treated Dad when he told them who Mum's killer was, hates the way they laugh when someone who's not in blue tells them a God damned truth), and hurries out after Dean before he leaves him behind.

 

They stay in the town another three days to make sure they were right and the killer wasn't someone else entirely (it's only happened once before; they had their killer in jail, only for another death occur that same day, far too late to be considered the work of the man they'd caught, despite the exact same M.O.). Nothing happens, and they're able to leave with a clear conscience. Well, Sam is, at least.

 

Bobby, a cop from their hometown (the only one who believed Dad, and the only friend they have from those early days), calls about another serial murder and emails the information to them. By Bobby's estimate, they've only got two days before the next murder occurs.

 

Dean pulls up into a hotel on the outskirts of the latest town, and they're given the last room available: the honeymoon suite. It's all red velvet and puke-worthy pink, and Sam needs a bottle of alcohol (maybe three) if he's going to be forced to sleep in a room like this. Again.

 

His brother just laughs and indicates to the mini bar. It's got a padlock and they don't have a key, but they're not exactly conventional in their methods, and both of them know how to pick a lock. They'll drink the small fridge dry, replace the padlock, and the hotel staff will think they haven't used the mini bar, so it won't be included on their tab. Win-win.

 

Sam downs three mini-bottles of vodka while Dean looks over the files Bobby's sent them. The hotel room's getting warmer (or maybe that's the alcohol), and he can only watch as Dean paces with the laptop, biceps flexing now that he's taken his leather jacket off. Sam would do anything for his brother (it's one of the main reasons he's still here, not back in law school), but he loves him more than a brother should. Dean knows this, Sam knows he does, and while Dean's never kicked him out of bed, they both know that Sam's let Dean get away with things that he really shouldn't.

 

"I'm going to see if this place has got anything worth eating. I'll bring something back for you, Sammy. Don't drink the rest of the bar without me," Dean says, giving him a grin over his shoulder as he grabs his leather jacket and leaves.

 

Sam's stomach churns and it has nothing to do with the alcohol. He barely makes it to the bathroom in time, throwing up the mini-bottles of vodka and then some. Sam knows that Dean isn't going out for food; the hunger he has isn't for food, it's for blood.

 

Every serial murder they've investigated for the last six months has always had another murder within hours of them arriving to the town. It's always the exact same M.O. used by the killer that they're investigating, nothing is missed, every detail accounted for, and the police have no reason to suspect anyone else. There's nothing left behind to incriminate him, and what's one more murder on top of the ones the killer's already committed?

 

Sam can't bring himself to drink any more and just sits in the dark, waiting for Dean to return. He'll read the files in the morning when he's got a clear head. Either way, he knows that there will be another dead body found by tomorrow, and it will be an exact match of the killer's M.O.

 

He hears the Impala pull up outside and glances over to the clock. 12:08am. Sam stands up just as Dean comes in with two boxes of pizza. His brother smiles at him, green eyes almost glowing in the reflection of the room's seedy red lights.

 

"Took you a while to get two pizzas, Dean," Sam says, his voice quiet and resigned.

 

"Nothing in this town was open; had to go to the next one over," he replies casually, setting the pizzas down and slipping off his jacket.

 

Sam's spent his whole life being taught how to notice the small details, watch for the things that get overlooked by most other people, and the blood drops that litter the cuff of Dean's plaid shirt are unmistakable. Dean offers an open pizza box to Sam with that grin of his, and Sam wishes he'd never suspected the truth all of those months ago. He shakes his head at the offer, muttering that he's not hungry, and goes to bed with a heavy heart.

 

He's woken a couple of hours later when he feels Dean lie down on the bed beside him. Sam forces himself to turn away, to not look at those green eyes, to not give in this time.

 

"Oh, don't be like this, Sammy. Not to me. You know I can't handle it when you go all cold shoulder on me," Dean murmurs, his fingers trailing along his shoulder.

 

"I'm not. I'm just tired," Sam replies.

 

Dean scoffs in disbelief. "Since when has that stopped you? I seem to remember you dry-humping me in your sleep only a few days ago."

 

Sam stays quiet for the whole of one minute, watching the clock change from 2:29am to 2:30am with a stubborn gaze. Then he turns over to glare at Dean, who just bites his lip and smiles up at him with that God damn look of his, and Sam wants to hurt him for it. He kisses Dean harshly, his lips and teeth drawing blood, and Dean fucking _laughs_ underneath him, as if he expects nothing more or less from his baby brother. Sam and Dean both know that this is the only time when Sam can feel in control of his life again. His childhood was never one to begin with; college was taken away from him by the death of his girlfriend, and then his father; and even when they're on the road, Sam can't choose anything from the food they eat to the music they listen to. This is the only way he's ever in control anymore. So he takes control while and when he can.

 

There's nothing sweet about this, no savoured moments, no cherished memories, nothing but teeth biting, fingernails scratching, fingers bruising. It's all pain and little pleasure, and Sam almost tears Dean's pants off him in order to bury himself in him to the hilt. Dean gives a hiss of pain, and Sam's glad that he didn't bother to use lube or prepare him. He wants it to hurt, he wants Dean to hurt, and he wants Dean to remember this with every God damn fucking step he takes tomorrow. Sam thrusts sharply, his fingers digging into Dean's shoulders, hard enough to bruise. Dean just grins and moves to hook his legs over Sam's cold shoulders. They know this rhythm better than they know themselves, and Sam hates himself for not being able to look away from Dean. He can't bring himself to stop watching him, he can't help but wonder if this is what it feels like to truly torture and kill someone, over and over, only to have them come back to life the next day, taunting you with their green-eyed gaze.

 

"Close your eyes," Sam demands.

 

"What's the magic word?" Dean asks, eyes full of laughter and mischief and death.

 

"Do it _now_ , you sick fuck," Sam says, his voice almost hoarse.

 

"Not as sick as you, little brother," Dean replies, closing his eyes.

 

Sam wants to cry and scream, because they both know he's right. Dean might kill people, but Sam fucks his brother and loves it. In their world, who's to say who's worse?

 

He presses a kiss to Dean's lips, harder than before and sure to bruise them both, and then Sam comes hard, semen leaking over his cock as he pulls out. Dean turns away to jerk off, and Sam heads into the bathroom to clean up so he doesn't have to hear Dean's throaty moan of desire.

 

"So who was it this time?" Sam asks, leaving the bathroom clad only in a pair of light sweatpants, and throws a damp cloth at Dean's head.

 

"Who was what, little brother?" Dean asks, catching the cloth and cleaning up his languid and sticky cock.

 

"Who'd you kill?"

 

"I've got no idea what you're talking about," Dean says, but he's sitting up straight as a rod and watching Sam warily.

 

"My cell's off, see?" Sam says, pressing a button on his phone to prove it.

 

Dean doesn't lose his wary expression, but he nods briefly. "No one good."

 

"They never are," Sam replies, rolling his eyes.

 

Dean gets up, pulling his pants on, and heads over to the window to check that Sam's not setting him up. There's no flash of red and blue, no nondescript van, and the night is eerily quiet. He sits at the small table and gets a slice of pizza. It's cold but still edible, and he takes a generous bite.

 

"So now what?" he asks between chewing.

 

"We keep doing what we've always done," Sam replies with a shrug.

 

"You're not... Y'know, freaked out?" Dean asks, raising his eyebrow in surprise.

 

"I've suspected for a while, Dean. At first, yeah, I was freaked out. I mean, this is everything Dad taught us to hate and loathe, and there you are, doing exactly what he told us to never do. I mean, I always thought you'd rebel eventually, just not like this," Sam says, shaking his head.

 

"Yeah, yeah. Cut the guilt bullshit. Are you going to turn me in or not? I don't want to have to keep watching over my shoulder for cops every time we go somewhere."

 

"You're already doing that, Dean, and it's becoming obvious. Even Bobby's noticing," Sam says with a sigh.

 

"Fine. Tell me I won't have any trouble with you, and I'll stop looking," Dean says, taking up another slice.

 

Sam swallows hard, wonders if he'll really be able to go through with this. Every instinct and fibre of his being is telling him to hand Dean over, to do what they were trained to do with all killers. But then he remembers how Dean has always looked out for him, and Sam knows that he can never do that to his brother. Not yet, at least.

 

"You won't have any trouble with me, Dean. I promise... Besides, orange really isn't your colour," Sam says.

 

Dean laughs, his green eyes bright. Sam grins, moves to sit across from him and eat pizza together, just as it should be.

 

...

 

The end.


End file.
